


When Words Fail

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Blood and Injury, Drowning, Established Relationship, Fights, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hair Washing, Hand Jobs, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Makeup Sex, Making Up, Men Crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22523356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: Geralt feels like absolute shit. And while it might have something to do with the fact that there’s currently more water than air resting in his lungs, thanks to a particularly ferocious Kikimora refusing to die… Contrary to what the bard may think, he’s actually more upset about what happened after he’d managed to dispatch the monster to the next life.He’d yelled. Okay, it had admittedly been a bit more than just ‘yelling’. He’d screamed, screamed until it hurt--which hadn’t taken long, considering that just talking for brief stretches of time made his lungs burn like hellfire--and he’d made Jaskier cry.AKAGeralt may suck at communicating, but even he can recognize that thosearen'ttears of joy.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 818





	When Words Fail

Geralt feels like absolute  _ shit _ . And while it  _ might _ have something to do with the fact that there’s currently more water than air resting in his lungs, thanks to a particularly ferocious Kikimora refusing to  _ die _ … Contrary to what the bard may think, he’s actually more upset about what happened  _ after _ he’d managed to dispatch the monster to the next life. 

He’d yelled. Okay, it had admittedly been a bit  _ more _ than just ‘yelling’. He’d screamed, screamed until it  _ hurt _ \--which hadn’t taken long, considering that just  _ talking _ for brief stretches of time made his lungs  _ burn _ like hellfire--and he’d made Jaskier cry. And he hadn’t apologized, didn’t know  _ how _ he could possibly convey how very  _ sorry _ he was for spitting out such vitriolic words that he hadn’t meant, for taking the bard’s heart in his hands and shattering it after working so very hard to earn back his trust. He’d just… listened to the bard’s poor attempts at muffling his sobs as he tried to piece together whether they had enough ingredients to make an expectorant powerful enough to clear his lungs, or if they’d have to shell out the coin to have him be properly treated by a healer…

It is by no means the  _ worst _ injury that he’s ever sustained, but he’s far from thrilled at the possibility of drowning in his sleep should it remain unresolved. Not to mention the fact that he can barely take even the most  _ shallow _ of breaths without doubling over in the saddle, gripping the reigns so tight he comes uncomfortably close to cutting off the circulation in his hand as he hacks and splutters and spits up mouth-fulls of greenish-black bog water tinged with blood. The pain in his chest is making him irritable, and no matter how his black heart aches at seeing Jaskier in such a distressed state, he knows he’ll only make it worse by attempting to patch things over while there’s still fluid rattling about in his chest. And so he bites his lip and does his best to tune him out.

They never actually make it to the inn. They’re still an hour or two away when the pain becomes unbearable and Geralt announces that they’re making camp. Jaskier must appreciate the sorry state that the Witcher is in--that, or he’s hesitant to face his wrath for the second time that day--because he does not complain as he sets those few belongings he has against the base of a nearby tree trunk and begins to wander a short distance away to collect sticks to build their fire. Geralt slides out of the saddle, barely catching himself before he collapses completely, and begins rummaging through the saddle bag until he finds two small pouches: the first is filled with peppermint leaves that had just begun to brown along the edges, and the other is filled with fresh elderberries.

He’s not entirely certain as to what happened after that, because the next thing sees is Jaskier standing above him, his pretty face contorted in concern as he adjusts the sticks beneath his arm, “You really shouldn’t lie like that, Geralt. It’ll make it all the more difficult to breathe.” 

There are many things he wishes to say. He settles on, “Hit me.”

The bard’s eyes blow wide, “W-What?” But Geralt isn’t properly listening to him, is utilizing quite a bit of energy to roll over onto his belly and bare his back to the bard. “I know you were an ass earlier, but violence is never the answer. I’d never willingly  _ hurt _ you--,”

“I’m not asking you to  _ hurt _ me.” The Witcher wheezes, “I need y-you to hit--,” he coughs so hard, his entire body seems to shake with the force of it, “m-my back. I-It’ll help to… to dislodge the w-water.”

“U-Um, okay…” Jaskier sets the sticks down, before kneeling down beside Geralt’s hunched frame. “Like this, then?” Clearly still hesitant and worried that he’ll somehow hurt the other, he gives the small of his back a light  _ tap. _

“Harder.” He breathes. Jaskier tries again, this time with a bit more confidence, but it’s still not enough. “ _ Harder _ .”

Jaskier lands a heavy-handed  _ thump _ on the small of the Witcher’s back. “Gods, Geralt, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean--,”

Geralt begins to cough, and Jaskier has to look away because… yikes, he hadn’t realized it was that bad. The Witcher may be immune to most human ailments, but he still needs to make use of his lungs. He wonders, absently, if he could still fall victim to the likes of pneumonia, or if the excess fluid rattling about in the bottom of his lungs would simply drown him first. And isn’t that a terribly morbid train of thought. Jaskier continues to whack his back, each stroke just a bit gentler than the last, doing his best to think of sunshine and flowers and butterflies and  _ anything _ even remotely more pleasant than the sounds escaping the Witcher’s trembling form as he cleansed his lungs. He loses track of time as he remains hunched over beside Geralt’s broken body, until, at long last--

“J-Jaskier,” he looks, and sounds, exhausted, but his voice isn’t rattling like it had been just a short while ago, and Jaskier counts his blessings. “Water… Give me t-the flask…”

Jaskier hands it over readily, helping Geralt to roll over and propping him up against a few stones so that he wouldn’t aspirate and start the vicious cycle over anew. “Well, my dear Witcher, I believe that we’ve all learned a very valuable lesson today. For all your big, bad mutations, you definitely cannot breathe underwater.”

Tired, molten ambers eyes narrow at the younger man, though his expression holds no real heat, “Shut up.”

The bard’s face falls. “Ahh, right.” He bends to retrieve his firewood, “I’ll just… be over there, starting the fire. If you need me--though you’ve already made it abundantly clear that you  _ don’t _ \--you know where to find me.”

It’s only once the bard has tottled out of earshot that he allows himself a quiet, “Fuck…”

It takes him a little while to catch his breath--and even then, he can still feel a bit of liquid rattling around in places where it shouldn’t, but he finds that breathing comes much easier now and he’s fairly confident that the immediate threat has passed--but once he feels a bit better, he opens the sack of berries and slowly begins to munch on them. In the distance, he can see Jaskier start a small fire. The bard strategically positions a few sticks around the flames so that he can balance a worn-out copper kettle overtop of the fire. He’s probably making himself tea, and for a moment, Geralt entertains the idea of joining him by the fire. The steam would help to cleanse his lungs, and he could use the excess water to steep the peppermint leaves to brew a powerful expectorant…

But he cannot bring himself to move until he has something he can say to Jaskier, some beautiful, flowery phrase that will bring the light back into the bard’s beautiful blue eyes. He’d been so close, earlier. After spending hours sobbing over Geralt being an absolute  _ ass _ , Jaskier had been the bigger person and had extended the olive branch… and Geralt had lit that branch on fire and laughed whilst it burned. Okay, perhaps that was a  _ bit _ dramatic, but still. He knows that he needs to say  _ something _ , and if history is  _ any _ sort of teacher,  _ waiting _ to speak will not make the words come any easier. He takes another swig of water and rises on unsteady legs, ignoring the judgmental side-eye Roach sends his way as he stumbles over to where Jaskier has begun to make camp.

“Oh.” The bard turns to him and offers him a wavering smile that does not quite reach his eyes. “Feeling better, I take it?” He swallows hard, “I know that you do not need my advice, but it would probably be best top strip off those clothes and dry them by the fire. A quick dip in the stream wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Geralt is silent for a long moment, his troubled amber eyes flickering in the firelight. Then, “Join me.” 

Jaskier splutters, “I-I’m sorry. I must’ve misheard you, because it sounded like you just--,”

He holds out his hand, curling his fingers about the bard’s lean wrist, “Come, wash my back. I know that you would not have the bedroll smell of bog water.” An unspoken apology lingers between the lines, ever present in the soft caress of Geralt’s thumb over the bard’s pulse point. 

“I-I wouldn’t want to intrude…” his voice is soft, hesitant, even as he finds himself rising up off of the log and stumbling after Geralt like a lost puppy. 

“It is not an intrusion if I  _ invite _ you, little lark.” Geralt reminds him, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

“I-I’m still,” he licks his lips, one thousand and one words flitting about inside of his brain, but none of them seem to fit quite right. “I’m still  _ hurt _ , you know.” He feels the way the Witcher flinches, his grip on the other man’s wrist loosening ever so slightly. “You have quite a bit to make up for.”

The Witcher raises one dark eyebrow, “But I  _ can _ make up for it?”

The bard nods, slow and lazy, “Anything is possible.”

Geralt releases the other’s wrist so that he might begin the slow process of undressing him. It’s not so much that the Witcher is wearing a great deal of clothing--he’d shucked the armor almost immediately after assuring that the Kikimora was dead, recognizing the strain that the soaking leathers had on his breathing almost immediately. Jaskier removes the rest of his soaking clothes with great care, taking the time to thoroughly inspect the other for injuries that he may have missed due to their earlier… excitement. Aside from a few minor scrapes and bruises, Geralt seems largely okay, and that takes a tremendous weight off of the bard’s shoulders as he guides the now-naked Witcher over to the stream and motions for him to get in. 

“You’re not…?” The bard shakes his head, choosing instead to bend down and roll his pants up over his knees. 

“Geralt… less than an hour ago, you were hunched over a cluster of rocks, hacking up bog water and blood and phlegm. You’re better  _ now _ , sure… but that kind of image tends to haunt a man. I’m not going to demand of your body more than it can give.” And then Jaskier smirks, “Besides, I don’t believe in rewarding bad behavior.”

Geralt’s features pinch in confusion, “So what would you--,”

Jaskier presses a finger to his lips, silencing him, “That does not mean that I do not have  _ plans _ for you, my White Wolf. Now--into the stream, with your back to me. Yes, just like that. Perfect.”

The bard then proceeds to wash him with slow, steady hands. He starts with his hair, rinsing filth and muck from the silver-white strands and lathering them with sweet, subtly scented fragrances that strip away the stomach-turning scent of  _ mire  _ and  _ death _ . When it comes time to cleanse his body, the bard uses a handcrafted soap made with peppermint oil. Geralt had purchased it from a healer in the last town they’d traveled through after Jaskier had been forced into bed by a particularly violent head cold that had migrated into his lungs. The healer had explained that peppermint oil contained something called  _ menthol _ , which helped to break up phlegm trapped in the face, chest, and lungs. There was no reason it shouldn’t help Geralt here and now…

The bard swirls the bar of soap in lazy circles along Geralt’s belly, trailing lower… and lower still… until bright white suds cling to the dank curls that lead to the Witcher’s half-hard cock. He can  _ feel _ a delightful moan rumble through the Witcher’s body as Jaskier’s free hand curls about his girth and offers a tentative stroke. Those fingers, calloused from years of strumming along the strings of his lute, grow tighter, until the grip borders on painful, and each slow stroke transforms into a proper  _ tug _ . The bar of soap swirls lower, bypassing his cock completely to dip between his legs and stroke his sac, the bard’s short nails gliding over the sensitive skin. Geralt unconsciously slides his legs open just a hair wider, groaning at the feel of Jaskier’s thick thighs pressing tight into his sides…

He can feel his orgasm begin to build in his belly, can feel the miniscule shift of Jaskier’s hips against the broad expanse of his back as the bard chases his own pleasure, and in that place of near orgasmic euphoria he finds himself close enough to true peace to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Those hips don’t stop moving, and neither do those hands, and he can smell the salty tang of Jaskier’s tears as the bard whispers, “I know.” And  _ fuck _ , he wants to give this man everything. He deserves so much more than Geralt can give--he’s too good for him, and he knows it, but he doesn’t dare  _ say _ it for fear of ruining… well,  _ everything _ . 

“Hnnn… just like that… yes,  _ yes _ …” Jaskier’s hand moves faster, causing the surface of the water to ripple and  _ smack _ and it’s beautifully obscene and everything he could have asked for and--

He spills, the crystal blue water in the stream turning a milky, translucent white with his spend. Jaskier’s hand continues to work him over until a shuddering burst of hot air hits the back of his neck and the feels the other’s slacks become damp with seed. “W-Well… that definitely defeated the purpose of me washing your back.”

Geralt snorts. He’s not particularly bothered by the bit of Jaskier’s seed that had oozed through his pants onto his bare back, “I meant it… what I said earlier. I am sorry. I never should have--,”

He turns around to face Jaskier, settling between the other man’s quaking thighs, “Shh. I know. And believe it or not, I do want you to tell me when you’re hurt, or angry, or upset--I want to know everything about you, even those things that’re not so great. We just… need to work on your delivery a bit. That’s all.”

“I love you.” He whispers, his voice scarcely loud enough for Jaskier to hear. But he does.

“I love you, too.” The bard answers easily. “Now, let’s get you out of this stream and into something  _ warm _ . I know that you’re probably fine, but  _ I’m _ freezing, and the hot water should be just about ready--,”


End file.
